


Darkness Flooded in Light

by abundanceofvowels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poison, Romance, Sherlock lacks experience in caretaking, doctors are the worst patients
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundanceofvowels/pseuds/abundanceofvowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been poisoned and it's up to Sherlock to find out who's behind it and help his best friend through his recovery. A belated gift for johnlockchallenges' December exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atropine, 6 mg

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to bubblepaints for her prompt (“accidental confession and its consequences” which will make more sense in a later chapter) as well as her patience with me during the unexpected delay in the posting of her gift. I fear I must again call on her patience as well as yours, as I will be posting in regular installments roughly once per week. That being said, what I have completed thus far would be much less enjoyable of a read were it not for Jessica who is, to me, not a ‘beta’ but rather an invaluable resource as motivator, giver of constructive criticism, and friend. Thank you, luv!

     Fleet Street. Left on Warwick Lane, right onto Newgate, St. Paul’s station.

     It took John a few moments to remember, after he had almost tripped over a kerb, what the reason was for their running through the dampness of London past dusk _this_ time.

     “Sherlock, wait up!” he called, wincing. Twisting one’s ankle while crossing the street was, admittedly, a bit embarrassing for someone who had experienced combat. A moment’s pause to check for mobility revealed that it wasn’t a serious injury. If he had the chance to stop and ice it, the whole thing would likely sort itself out in a matter of hours. No stopping at all and more haphazard galavanting through uneven alleyways was to be infinitely more likely, if past events were an accredited source of comparison.

     The blurry form of his flatmate’s billowing coat ran ahead, around several corners, and vaulted past two overturned bins before John managed to catch up, breathless.

     “Stopping.....so..soon?” he asked between pants, shifting his weight to the leg that used to suffer a limp to favor his opposite ankle.

     “I said the clues stop making sense here, do try to keep up.”

     John considered mentioning that Sherlock had spoken to mostly open air as John had been maintaining a much slower speed at least twenty paces behind for the past few minutes. But, instead, he managed a breathy “Oh..right.” before Sherlock launched into another one of his explanations that went halfway over John’s head.

     When words he’d never heard before started to make an appearance, John stopped listening and the bitter cold began to assert its presence once more. Running had taken his mind off of it but the pause had allowed the sheen of sweat across his forehead to cool and a shiver ran through him. Why hadn’t he thought to bring gloves, maybe a scarf as well? Hell, a thicker jumper would do him wondrous good right about now. The three layers he currently had on weren’t doing much and the cold was damp, lingering on the exposed portions of his skin. Sherlock carried on talking.

     “...on the sixth, but anyone who cared to use their eyes could tell that the knife wasn’t-John, are you listening?”

     “Yeah...I just...it’s c-cold.”

     “Brilliant deduction, perhaps the time you’ve spent with me hasn’t gone to waste.”

     John would have liked to have mentioned something about Sherlock being an enormous dick but he was frankly too cold for the effort of it. His fingers had started to turn numb; they shook as he folded his arms and sandwiched his freezing digits between elbows and ribcage, the tremor carrying itself through his limbs and into his core.

     “Honestly, John. I can’t have you jostling about while we’re on the case. Here.”

     Sherlock pulled his gloves from the pocket of his coat, handed them over. John would also have mentioned the absurdity of carrying around something to keep you warm instead of actually wearing it, but relief for his slowly freezing hands was being offered. He settled for a dramatic rolling of the eyes as he pulled the pricy leather gloves from Sherlock’s grasp and tugged them on. They were too large, of course, the tips of the fingers flat where John’s digits couldn’t quite reach. The fit wasn’t too bad overall and they were warm, so John kept his thankful mouth shut.

     That is, until he started feeling a bit off a few minutes later. Sherlock had begun walking away (still chattering and gesticulating wildly on about the man and his cutlery) toward St. Paul’s station entrance when John lost his footing, having to hold onto a nearby railing to save himself from falling over. His mouth was watering and his tongue felt like a wad of surgical cotton. He tried to call for Sherlock, found he couldn’t form words. The resulting sound succeeded in tearing Sherlock’s attention away from the scene he had painted with the great sweeps of his arms.

     “John?”

     John wanted to speak, needed to tell Sherlock. He knew what was happening to him, but there was no way of stopping it now. He hadn’t the faintest clue of how he’d gotten exposed but he had all of the beginning symptoms of a good old fashioned poisoning. This one was meant to target the nervous system: the increased secretion of salivary glands as well as decrease in muscle control the conclusive tells. He only had to wonder what exactly he’d face next. How far would his body be forced to suffer before he passed out or, much less amiably, went into violent convulsions and died?

    “John! What is it?” Sherlock appeared at his side, gripping his arms to keep him steady. “John, speak to me!”

     Try as he might, John could not manage more than a garbled groan that only half sounded like what he’d meant to say. A clammy sweat had broken out over his entire body, Sherlock’s warm hands on his biceps the only reminder that the world was more than a cold, wet blur.

     ‘Help!’ he wanted to holler ‘I’ve been poisoned, Sherlock’. He knew if something wasn’t done soon, this drooling mess would be his legacy. Luckily, Sherlock had relative fluency in the tongue of the benumbed and was able to understand the noise as its intended word.

     “Poisoned? How? You have not been out of my sight all evening and your sudden symptoms suggest a relatively recent exposure to-”

     John’s legs gave out and he tumbled to the ground, back leaning against the metal bars of the railing. Before John’s limbs had fully settled in the heap, Sherlock had his phone out and pressed a number on speed dial.

     “Lestrade. Call St. Bart’s, have them send a response team to St. Paul’s station immediately with six milligrams of atropine. It’s John.” Bless Sherlock’s seemingly endless knowledge of chemical substances and their effects, thought John. He might just have a chance. Sherlock’s visage was a strange combination of deductive reasoning and panic, it made the unique and exotic features that turned appreciative heads his direction into ugly, frightening points. To die here, John considered, under this sharpened gaze of his best friend, would not be the worst way he could go.

     John slumped further, helpless as a premature fledgling.

     “How were you poisoned?” he asked the misty London air, knowing full well John was well past answering “The only thing you’ve done that’s out of the ordinary since we’ve left the flat has been- no.”

     Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the hands that had fallen to John’s sides. He lifted one, examined the edge of a glove while holding his breath.

     “No! The gloves, I should have known. It was obviously meant for me and now you’ve-”

     John’s vision had started to go black around the edges, but he was aware enough to realize that he had just soiled himself. Lovely. His body was shutting down, losing control, and he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. Sherlock managed to lie him down and turn him onto his side before he emptied his stomach contents onto the pavement, gave an enormous shudder, and lost consciousness just before flashing lights and a loud siren rolled around a corner a few blocks away.


	2. Next of Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to Jessica for giving this a good once-over. I really appreciated the comments and kudos on the last chapter, each one put a grin on my face. I hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Formatting has been giving me trouble this time around, but I am impatient and want this posted now. I will likely go back and edit some when I post chapter 3.

     When the medical team arrived, Sherlock had his hand resting lightly on John’s shoulder blade. The tips of his long fingers reached the beginning of the place where shirt collar met dampened skin, and he felt John’s involuntary shivering under his palm.“Sir, you’re going to have to move aside. This man needs medical attention. Immediately.” Sherlock knew better than to argue. John’s life was balanced on a precipice. He hadn’t stopped breathing but it had become laboured and he was no longer responding to any stimuli.

    “The gloves.” Sherlock said, pointing to the two black lumps a few feet away on the pavement. No sooner had John passed out than Sherlock had grasped them by the flat points at the fingertips and tossed them away, evaluating the state of John’s hands. There was almost no sign of the poison having touched them. Sherlock suspected (hoped) that the dosage was not severe enough that it would leave lasting injury, despite being powerful enough to render John speechless and nearly lifeless on the pavement. It was the nearly that Sherlock clung to. “He was poisoned through exposure to the skin on the hands. I suspect the interior of the gloves to have been sprayed with a diluted solution of an oxyphosphate poison. Most likely sarin.”

     “Not going to ask how you know that, mate. There’s no way to know for certain until further tests are done, but I’d say we got here just in time. He’ll have to be put in the ICU for recovery, I’d bet.”

     During this short exchange, the paramedic speaking to him reached over to pull up John’s sleeve and swab an area on his bicep while another approached with a syringe filled with six milligrams of the clear solution. A third went to retrieve the gloves, placing them into a biohazard bag. The needle was swiftly pushed into the bulk of John’s upper arm and Sherlock looked on as his friend was carefully lifted onto a gurney and into the back of the ambulance by the bulkier of the two medics.

     Sherlock followed close behind and stepped into the back of the wailing emergency vehicle. The doors closed behind him to the mild protest of his fellow passengers. In a few seconds, with the help of a steely glare from the detective, they resigned themselves to the idea that he would be joining them for the ride. When the police department summoned you personally as a favor, it was often better not to ask questions.

     John had an oxygen mask over his face and his vitals were being taken and recorded on a clipboard. As the vehicle made fast work of the darkened streets, Sherlock watched the sluggish rise and fall John’s chest. If not for the sheen of sweat and worrying tremor, he could have been sleeping. He had watched that before, John’s sleep. In his chair back at the flat, John’s sleep was peaceful, predictable. Here, it was strained, clinical. This was not sleep, Sherlock remembered. This was a man who had been invited to Death’s door and tripped over the welcome mat.

\- - - -

     The process of submitting John to the ICU was swift and out of sight. Sherlock was forced into the waiting room full of moaning, coughing, crying civilians, to his absolute chagrin. It pained him to be forced out of the way. He wanted information and, while he could deduce the ailments of those around him in a matter of seconds- flu, early labour, severed finger, a young man with blood-spotted gauze wrapped around his forearm and thigh...mildly interesting-he only cared to know about the one he could not see. His mind was restless, running in circles without a means to an end. He phoned Lestrade again. The voice that answered was groggy with sleep.

     “Sherlock? What is it? John’s gotten to the-”

     “Yes, yes, he’s been admitted. I’ve been forbidden from joining him, which is why I am bothering calling you. I’ve got a lead on the stabbing case...”

\- - - -

     Some hours later, his patience stretched thin as monofilament, Sherlock’s mobile began to ring. He looked at the caller ID, expecting Mycroft (tedious), and didn’t recognize the number (intriguing).

     “Yes?” he answered, annoyance obvious in his voice.

     “Mister Sherlock Holmes?” He hummed in affirmation. “Hello, this is St Bartholomew's Memorial Hospital. We have a recently admitted patient who has you listed as his contact in case of an emergency.”

     Sherlock’s brain paused for a moment, went first to his brother and dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had come. He doubted even his sibling would place him as his next of kin, far too unreliable. Who, then?

     “Mister Holmes?”

     “Yes. What is the patient’s name?”

     “You-you don’t know?” The woman seemed surprised. He supposed her reaction was valid. It probably wasn’t common that someone would have to question their next of kin. “John Watson, sir.” she answered anyway.

     That was...mildly surprising. John would have listed Harry as his next of kin were she not some distance away and likely intoxicated, Sherlock reasoned. The fact that John had taken the time to think about it and had eventually deemed Sherlock more suitable for the position, as well as changed his records to reflect this, caused something unfamiliar to swell in the center of Sherlock’s chest, if only for a moment. He pushed the feeling aside, replaced it with logic. It was merely the smartest decision considering the circumstances.

     “John, yes I’m aware he is in your care. I am seated in the waiting room now.” Sherlock’s spoke with calculated calm. Waiting was tedious.

     “Ah, you- you are? They did suspect that might be the case...” she trailed off. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Right. He’s in the Intensive Care Unit now and has been stabilized. As it’s nine AM, you are welcome to-”

     “Which room?” he rose from his chair, already walking toward the hallway of the ICU.

     “Uhm, one twenty seven.”

     Sherlock hung up, treating the receptionist to a dial tone as farewell.

     Finding the room was easy. Sherlock approached the doorway, dispensing sanitizer and rubbing it over his hands before entering, the action surprising himself. Taking precautions for the sake of another. Sentiment. Also tedious. There were no nurses or doctors present at the moment,  Sherlock suspected that was because he had been so quick to arrive. The room’s only other occupant was laid out on the bed, head slightly elevated, breathing mask still attached, drip in his hand and leg, monitors beeping steadily.

     Sherlock approached the bed and awkwardly laid a hand on the blanket near John’s exposed arm. He didn’t move, aside from the rhythmic expansion of his lungs under the blanket. Sedated, then. A figure walked through the door behind him.

     “Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes.”

     Sherlock turned and quickly took in the appearance of the man at the door. Late thirties, olive-toned, clean shaven, wavy dark hair, neatly trimmed. Greek, most likely, based on facial structure. Ring on left hand, modest but shining. New doctor, even more newly engaged. Confident. Gentle smile, active attempt at good bedside manner. The man took a few steps forward, held out his right hand.

     “I’m Dr. Costas. Pleasure to meet you.” the hand hovered, waiting. Correct in the Greek assumption, then. Slowly, Sherlock moved and grasped Dr. Costas’ hand in his own. The young man’s grip was strong and he pumped Sherlock’s hand up and down a few times, grinning all the while. Sherlock raised his chin in assent.

     “John Watson is a lucky man-” Costas mentioned, his gaze resting on John.

     Sherlock felt the beginning of a smirk. If John had been awake to hear that, he’d likely have wrinkled his brow and opened his mouth, preparing a protest of his often assumed homosexuality. As it was, John remained drugged and motionless. The line made by Sherlock’s lips remained parallel to the floor.

     “-if that poison had been even a fraction stronger than it was, I don’t think he would have made it.”

     “Sarin, correct?” it was more of a statement than a question.

     “That’s right. The paramedics did mention you were quite clever. Have you studied medicine?”

     “No more or less than anything else, doctor.” The title was meant to reference rank, but the way Sherlock had spoken it likened it to peasantry.

     Costas’ confident and cheerful facade had retreated slightly. He checked the clipboard in his left hand as an excuse to gather himself. When he spoke again, his eyes were still on the pages in front of him, but he wasn’t reading. He had memorized all the facts of the diagnosis, eager to apply his knowledge.

     “A diluted solution of Sarin, sprayed onto the interior of a pair of black leather gloves. Yours, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Holmes. A most curious method of poisoning.”

     “You’ve seen many poisonings, doctor?”

     “My share. Most accidental and involving poor food preparation or industrial accidents. This is different. You’ve already involved the police, suggesting that you believe this to be intentional. An attack.”

     Sherlock said nothing, blinked into the dim fluorescent glow of the room.

    “I must admit, Mr. Holmes. I am intrigued. I’ve seen your name mentioned in the papers, on the news stations. Always having your nose buried in some sort of mystery...”

     Sherlock’s mind had begun the shift from forced congeniality to annoyance. He moved his weight from one foot to the other, fingers curling more tightly toward his palms.

     “...must be tiring.”

    Tiring? He supposed it was, but it was hardly something he heard often. Most people saw him as a machine fueled by murder and fraud. The trouble with doctors, always looking past the symptoms to the cause. It was bloody tiring.

     “Unbelievably, almost as much as hearing you stand here and ramble on about information that has no relevance to the fate of John Watson.”

     Costas straightened, blinking a few times in rapid succession. “Of course, well. As I said, John is incredibly lucky to have made it. We have given him the proper antidote and sedated him to ease his recovery. Right now the coma is medically induced but in a few days we will attempt to slowly wake him. He may not react very positively to this, in fact there is no guarantee he will wake at all. Oxyphosphate poisons affect the nervous system and can leave major damage; increase psychological and physical trauma. He may require a longer stay here until we can determine if any damages will be permanent. For now, I would suggest that you do what you are doing. There is research that suggests that patients in comas, medically induced or otherwise, are often comforted by the presence of a loved one. You might even keep a journal of what you talk about as well as a record of what you remember from the events surrounding the poisoning. Slight memory loss is common as well.”

     “That can be managed.” was all Sherlock had in response. His mind already acted as a journal, pages full of data and observations. It was a small effort to locate the ones regarding last night and make room for information gathered during visiting hours.

     “Do you have any questions?” Costas asked politely, having regained composure fully after his speech.

     “No.” Sherlock spoke with finality, turning his back on the doctor and toward his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the tenses and point of view may have become a bit difficult to follow in this chapter. It seems Sherlock has that effect on my writing, the bugger. Unfortunately, I can't promise it'll clear up very soon as I'm planning on playing around a bit more with POV for the duration of John's stay in the hospital.
> 
> Additional apologies for any lapses in my knowledge of medicine. I have done a fair amount of research but as hospitals give me the heebie-jeebies, it was a bit of a bumpy road. If there are any readers whose knowledge in the field surpasses my own who notice something that would benefit from an adjustment, please do not hesitate to mention it!
> 
> (I'm a bit fond of the poison I eventually decided upon, truly nasty stuff. If you're twisted like me and like reading about lethal toxins, you can learn more about Sarin [here](http://www.cdc.gov/niosh/ershdb/EmergencyResponseCard_29750001.html))


	3. Waking the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My gratitude again to Jessica, who helped me to make sense of chemicals and turns of phrase. Apologies to all of you for the delay on this posting of this chapter. I'm afraid I had to see a man about a mouse (the New Fantasyland at Disney World is fantastic, by the way).

     “Visiting hours end in fifteen minutes, sir.”

     Sherlock raised his hand to acknowledge that he had heard the orderly. His other was on John’s forearm.

     Twenty minutes after Dr. Costas had departed, Sherlock stood with his eyes resting on John and tried to remember what had happened during and leading up to the poison entering his bloodstream, but found his memories restless and elusive. Sherlock sat back down, head in his hands, and tightened his fingers in the unruly curls present there like they were connected to the information in his brain; as if tugging them to straightness would somehow bring clarity to it all. When frustration increased and the pull began to cause a sharper pain than the welcomed dull reminder to focus, he let his hands fall to the bed. The skin of his fingertips inadvertently made contact with the warmth of John’s exposed arm and his thoughts stilled for a moment. Sherlock curled his hand around John’s limb, cold from exposure to the frigid hospital air. Long, pale fingers almost enveloped the entire circumference of John’s tanned arm. Sherlock’s brow creased. Were his hands that large? Was John really so small? He had never cared to notice before...why?

     Having solved the stabbing case (easy, once he had seen the man in the waiting room), Sherlock was completely obsessed with the situation at hand. Who had wanted to poison him? When had the poison been applied without his knowing? Why hadn’t he been more observant? Stupid. Of course they would strike when he was preoccupied. Were the cases connected? Important details swam like tiny fish in quicksilver and Sherlock felt as if he had been blindfolded and handed a net full of holes.

     "Five minutes, Mr. Holmes.” A familiar voice this time, Dr. Costas. “You’re more than welcome to come back to see John tomorrow morning. Visiting hours begin at nine.”

     Sherlock rose and smoothed out the minimal wrinkles on his Belstaff and trousers. Dr. Costas and his annoyingly polite grin were in the way as Sherlock exited the room (avoid contact), making his way toward the hospital exit (maintain distance from spewing london populous), into the sunlight (far too bright), and back to 221B (without John), empty.

\- -

     Within the ICU, John Watson felt a warm pressure tighten and then leave him completely, not knowing what it was but desperately needing it to return.

     His arm grew cold as he slipped back into the inky darkness.

\- - - -

     Sherlock spent the majority of the night frustrated and feeling a bit lost in his own home. Nobody could understand how vital John was to Sherlock’s thought processes; Sherlock often forgot the true extent himself. Plucking strings of his violin, poking at the experiments left out on the kitchen table (a particularly odorous mix of mould cultures, John would have protested), and looking over the case files strewn about the flat that John had been offering growing complaints about had taken up some time, but eventually proved themselves not worth the effort. Resigning to the disturbing lack of progress, he took advantage of the solitude to venture into his mind palace and pull to the surface all relevant information on poison, intensive care, and the location of his black leather gloves and the names of those who could have possibly come into contact with them or him over the course of the past week.

     Outside of Sherlock’s mind, the chemical elements were catalogued in an ordered series of columns and rows. On pencil and paper their combinations were easily recorded and in practice in test tubes and beakers their energy transfers were equally measured and predictable. Contained within Sherlock’s mind, they expanded to touch every corner and crevice. For an explosive moment, their collisions formed compounds and set his palace ablaze with exothermic reactions. They passed by in clouds to which he could reach out and grasp at their edges of opalescent glass, charred bits of rock, fluid that wrapped around his fingertips. It was one of Sherlock’s most secret escapes; a place where creation and destruction existed simultaneously. It was pure science and those with normal thought processes could have easily told you the word Sherlock was looking for to describe it all was beautiful. It was knowing and understanding how both order and chaos could come into existence that ignited the pleasure centers in Sherlock’s brain. He delighted in experimentation and here the possibilities were endless. It was easy to get carried away.  
     Sherlock separated the components he’d be needing and left the propitious fog behind, moving on to a room with towers of darkened metal filing cabinets. In this space, he could sort through things with ease. Facts were simple, organized, and contained. From the pillar with files labeled ‘NHS’ he gathered intravenous tubes, catheter, oxygen tank, adjustable bed, cold tile floor, fluorescent lights, rough blankets, the rise and fall of shallow breaths, a brow free of wrinkles in sedation, the beeping of a heart monitor, the warm arm that served as an anchor...

\----

     In the morning, it was Mrs. Hudson who roused him.

     “Sherlock? Sherlock, dear?” a soft voice spoke through the tap of knuckles on wood.

     Sherlock opened his eyes to the glow of sun filtering in through the layers of clouds, fog, and semi-transparent curtains. Based on the angle of the light it was approximately...half past eleven. Sherlock stretched his mouth in a grand yawn. It was not surprising that his body, in its relaxed state, had finally given in. Three days of being this close to solving a case often eliminated resting from the equation. Sleep must have come sometime after finding the information he needed about-

      “John.”

      His voice sounded like gravel on a cheese grater to his own ears. He threw his legs over the side of the couch and stood, ignoring the oncoming wave of dizziness from not having eaten recently. He was still in his silk shirt and trousers from the day before, their wrinkles now beyond the help that a flattened palm could provide. He made quick time to the door, opening it to a frantic landlady.

     “Oh Sherlock, I heard about John. He’s alright, isn’t he?” She took in his appearance. “You’re alright?”

     “The answer to the former would rely on your trust in the staff of Saint Bartholomew’s, Mrs. Hudson. I’m off to visit him now if your goal in checking in on me was to suggest a cab share.” He spoke nothing of the latter inquiry on his own condition.

     “Oh! Would you, Sherlock? I do want to see him for myself, make sure he’s okay. I’ll just go down and get a few extra blankets. When I was there for my hip it was dreadfully cold...”

    As Mrs. Hudson hobbled her way back down the stairs, Sherlock made swift work of changing into clothes with less wrinkles. He chanced a glance at himself in the mirror while buttoning his shirt. Despite the sleep he had gotten the previous night, the eyes reflected were not those of a rested man. With irises that were nearly silver in contrast to the purplish circles beneath them, he looked like a corpse. The comparison was not entirely incongruous with how he felt. Mrs. Hudson’s presence this morning had not lifted him from the tendrils of oblivion, but rather simply extended the length of their somnolent grasp. Splashing water onto his face and dragging fingers through his curls did little in the way of waking the dead.

    Outside, the London weather was no more forgiving than the previous night. He helped Mrs. Hudson into the cab, taking the small, foil covered dish she had paused to retrieve just before leaving

     “I’ve brought some biscuits. I know John’s likely to be sleeping it off but I thought at least you might be able to eat them if you’re not going to be returning until late.”

     Sherlock slid in beside her, rested the dish on his lap, and gave direction to the driver.

     “Sure thing. Looks like a storm’s on its way, donnit? Hope you both got a brolly.”

     Such a dismal attempt at small talk did not warrant a reply. Fingers clenched tightly onto the edges of foil and porcelain, knuckles white.

     “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson tutted after a few minutes. She pulled his hands from the dish and brought them closer to her face. “You’ve gone and cut yourself on the aluminium foil. You should really be more careful, you know.”

     The dish had migrated to the small space between them on the seat. Sherlock stared at it disdainfully as his landlady dabbed at the red lines on his fingers with her handkerchief.

     “What would John think? One day away from him and you’ve already given yourself- Sherlock!”

     He swatted her hands away and curled his own into fists on his thighs, relishing in the sting of the tiny lacerations. It gave his brain something on which to focus it’s intolerable spinning. Beside him, Mrs. Hudson furrowed her brow and gave him a knowing look. She patted his arm a few times and squeezed it gently in a way that he knew was supposed to be comforting.

     “Honestly, Sherlock. You need to look out for yourself. I don’t want both of my boys to become residents of Bart’s...I hardly think that awful skull will pay the rent while you’re away.”

     Sherlock’s nails dug crescent-shaped hollows into the skin of his palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind words on previous chapters. I am surprised daily by the amount of support and creativity in this fandom. As always, concrit is more than welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> I must apologize for any inaccuracies in poison treatment/medical terminology. I have done my best to thoroughly research the poison that I found most suitable for its role in this fic and keep everything as true to life as possible. I will do my best to avoid it, but should circumstances be stretched into the realm of Hollywood medicine, I hope that the occasions are subtle enough so as to not disturb the story as a whole.


End file.
